About 5 years ago, I had surgery to fix an epigastric hernia, or as I like to call it, my alien.
Yes indeed, my guts were nearly popping out of my chest.
The doctor who fixed me was skilled at repairing hernias, but not so skilled at stitching up a woman who wants to be able to be seen naked without an angry, jagged, red scar.
Well, the redness has faded. But I still have a large, crooked scar across my abdomen.
Every time someone new sees me naked, his eyes are drawn to the scar and I find myself explaining how I gave birth to an alien (aka a hernia).
I’m a little sensitive about it, to say the least.
But the other day, I noticed a scar on my friend Rick’s chin. He walked through a glass door as a child.
And my sister has a scar on her forehead from when she went into a windshield on Thanksgiving Day during a car accident which thankfully wasn’t as bad as it could have been.
I have several other friends and relatives with c-section scars – a noble way to obtain a scar, in my opinion.
My mom has a large scar from where she had open heart surgery.
I have countless other tiny scars all over my body and each tells a story.
- The time I stepped on a glass on the floor and nearly passed out.
- The tiny mole I had removed from under my left eye.
- The scar on my left palm that I got while trying to bake a homemade apple pie for my neighbor from scratch.
Each scar has a story. Each scar, when noticed, brings up memories of a past time.
I got to thinking that maybe scars aren’t as ugly as I once thought. Maybe they’re beautiful. Sexy, even. Lord knows I’ve enjoyed kissing all the scars on my ex-boyfriends. Scars hold part of our history. Our past. If our bodies are the rulers by which we measure our lives, the surely the scars are the units that we use as a guide.
So last week, when I was relaxing at home, instead of covering my scar, I grabbed a red pen and. . .
This is how I started to love my scar.